Her Battle
by Marislea
Summary: It's midnight and she is at his door - almost two months after he saw her dying in that ambulance. AU set after Season 3.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This is a new idea I've got. I hope you enjoy it.

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><p><strong>Her Battle<strong>

**Chapter One**

He doesn't quite know what to do when he opens the door. He hasn't seen her in almost two months and she is crying and shaking and it's just so out of character.

Because she's Kate Beckett and it's midnight and she's falling apart on his doorstep.

She shrieks when he takes her elbow to guide her in. It's freezing outside and she's not even wearing a jacket, only a thin long sleeve and even through the material he can see the goosebumps on her pale skin.

Her eyes are glued to the ground and for a moment he considers that she might be sleep walking. Because Kate Beckett would never come to him in the middle of the night; crying. She would never come to him crying at all – no matter what time of the day it is.

But here she is and he glances up the stairs hoping his mother and daughter are fast asleep and won't hear the breaking woman in his loft.

He takes her to his office, makes her sit down in one of the leather chairs, a thick blanket around her shoulders. Hoping to calm the shaking figure in front of him down. It's probably not the cold that got her shaking, because she's crying harder now.

No-

She's sobbing. And it's breaking his heart; because there is nothing he can do. Except for running his hands up and down her arms, asking her what happened. It seems to upset her even more.

"Kate-," the lump in his throat to big to swallow.

Her hair falls like a thick curtain around her face as her head hangs forward. Her shoulders are shaking violently, slim pale fingers grabbing the blanket, knuckles turning white.

She opens her mouth and he's sure she wants to say something but nothing comes out.

He squats down in front of her and he swears he's never been that helpless.

What on earth could have happened to her?

Oh god, what can he do? He needs to do something; anything.

Because she turned up crying at his door. She doesn't just do that. A bad day won't bring her to his door. Or a bad week. Or month. Or anything at all.

She doesn't do that, it's his only conclusion.

Except she did – and she's here now. Her muffled sobs, ragged breaths, shaking form underneath his fingers more than proof. She came to him in such a moment of darkness because maybe - his mind tells him - maybe she trusts him enough to make it better. Maybe it's not just him who wants to ease her pain. Maybe it's her wanting him to ease it.

He closes his eyes and he wants to cry. Because she's a freaking mess and he's never seen her like that and she came to _him._ And he can't help; he doesn't know what to do. He never does around her.

He swore himself he'd be mad at her. When,_ if, _she finally called he'd be mad. As days turned into a week into a month into _t__his._ And he still is; mad. They'd have to talk about it.

Not now, no. Right now he just wants to make her okay.

"Kate-,"

He's at loss; pleading.

"Please-," there's a bitter taste on his tongue, "tell me what to do to make it better."

"Just make it stop, Castle"

Those five words rip him apart. Her voice is hoarse and she sounds too fucking vulnerable and he just wants to take her away. Someplace different. Safe. Happy.

"Stop what, Kate?" he says her name, tries to draw her attention to him.

They haven't seen each other in seven weeks and five days and right now he doesn't care. Not about the promises she broke. Not about what he told himself he'd do. He needs to make her better. If not for her than at least for himself.

"Make it stop."

Something else kicks in. It's more than concern. It's fear. He's afraid.

His eyes wander over her body. Searches for something unusual. He stares openly at her chest and it's stupid, because it's covered with clothes but he knows it's underneath there.

The bullet wound.

He wants to reach out, check that everything is fine. But he doesn't. Because she is Kate Beckett and even shaking and crying and breaking down in front of him she's frightening; and he doesn't doubt her ability to shoot him for even a second.

"I don't know-," he starts but she interrupts him. Holding up a hand, making him stop in his tracks.

She leans forward, puts her face on her knees. He's sure it must be a really uncomfortable position.

At least she's not sobbing anymore. Still shaking. But her sobs subdued a few minutes ago and she reaches one hand to her side. A low groan escapes her.

"Are you in pain?"

She shakes her head, no but then she nods, yes. Barely visible.

"A little," it's just a whisper.

He puts a hand on her back because he doesn't know what to do. It's been too long since the last time he's seen her.

"Is that why you came? I can call someone or bring you to the hospital. Do you want some painkillers?"

He knows he's rambling but once he starts talking he can't stop. He needs to help her somehow.

She just shakes her head.

They stay like that for a while. His hand on her back, not moving. Just keeping the contact between them alive. Showing her that he's there. Her forehead still pressed against her knees; one of her hands found the way to his shirt; gently grabbing onto the material.

The only sound in the room comes from the ticking clock on the wall.

And their breaths. She's calmer now. Finally. He doesn't know how long they've been sitting here.

"Can I stay here tonight?"

She asks after what feels like an eternity. He turns his face to look at her and her eyes are on his for the first time tonight. For the first time in two months.

_God_, me missed her so much.

Her question almost knocks the air out of his lungs. He can't form any words and only nods. Because yes, he wants her to stay. And not just tonight.

There is still so much they have to talk about. So many unspoken words, unresolved feelings.

Not now. Later.

Because right now she's getting up from the chair, walks towards his bedroom. She's never been in there but somehow she knows her way around his home. Just like she belongs here.

She's in his room now and it scares him. What does she want? She stayed in his guest room before. Back when her apartment blew up.

They look at each other through the darkness, holding stares. He asks her if she wants something else to wear. It must be ridiculously uncomfortable to sleep in those jeans. She nods and he disappears into his closet for a moment before handing her a pair of dark green sweat pants and a black shirt.

She leaves his bathroom door a crack open as she wordlessly disappears to change. He stands in the middle of the bedroom. Only a shadow of her moving around in his bathroom visible through the light.

He should probably go; leave her alone. She's so out of character tonight but he knows she won't let him stay with her. He wants to.

_Oh_, so badly.

There's so much she still needs to work through and so does he.

His head is a fucked up mess right now. And he wants to be with her but he also needs to breathe for a second. That's something he can't do with her in the same room.

The last time he saw her she promised to call him. Then nothing.

He turns around, closes the door behind himself. Standing in the dark of his office he tries to swallow the lump in his throat. It's not working.

She's in his bedroom. She probably curls up in his bed right now. Maybe she's even lying on the side he usually sleeps at.

Damn-

Thinking doesn't help right now.

He has a guest room. He could definitively go there. Try to sleep some. Maybe clear his head.

He might be a professional in lying to himself but that is ridiculous; even for him. Like he'd be able to get any sleep right now.

She came to him crying tonight. She was breaking down right in front of him. And he hasn't seen her in months. He wouldn't leave her. He couldn't.

He settles down in the same chair she was in before he props his feet up on his couch table and folds his hands behind his head.

He won't be able to sleep tonight. He could write of watch TV. But that would make noise, or cause light. And he doesn't want to startle her.

From the other side of the door he can see the light on his nightstand being turned off.

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><p><strong>AN: **What do you think?


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Before you start reading I'd like to say a few things. I dedicate this story to my little brother - I thank you for the late night TV show marathons, our spontaneous dance parties and every vanilla latte. Thank you for sharing my addictions whether we're talking about shows or music. For many more incredibile things to come. I love you. Always.

Also, I'd like to thank you all very much for your amazing reviews, favourites and follows. You made each day a little sweeter.

I hope that this chapter I'll be able to answer some questions. More is coming in the next chapters. I will update this story on a weekly basis - maybe twice sometimes if I find the time. But for now I make Tuesdays my update days.

Thank you very much!

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><p><strong>Chapter Two<strong>

It's just after 2 AM when the door cracks; just ajar until he sees her slip into the office.

She walks towards him, her bare feet almost make no sound on his carpet. She still wears her gray lose shirt, his sweatpants hanging from her hips.

She stands in the middle of the room for a moment. He stares at her and despite the fucked up mess they're part of , he gets this oddly sick feeling that he could get used to it. To see her in his home. At night. In his clothes. Messy hair.

She is in her own world and he can almost see her inner turmoil. She has that look on her face he usually only sees during a hard case; when she stares at the murder board for hours and still can't find the answers she's looking for.

There was a time he was there; helped her to find what she was searching. Right now he's not sure he's that person anymore.

Or ever was, to be honest. Maybe it was all just a trick his mind played him; made him believe that there was something that's not actually there.

But;_ she_ is here. Right now. She came to him and that means something, right?

He really takes her in for the first time since she knocked on his door. Earlier he had different concerns but now he sees it all. The circles under her eyes – when did she last sleep? Her cheekbones somehow stand out sharper than just two months ago. She certainly lost weight making her appear almost sickly thin.

He can sense her uncomfortableness, lowers his eyes to the ground. Her fingers fiddle with the hem of her shirt. He doesn't know to whom this situation is more excruciating. Awkwardness hangs thick in the air between them.

One of them needs to take action. Do _something_.

He knows he's a coward but he's scared out of his mind. He needs her to make the move. He knows it's as hard for her as for him – hell, maybe even harder. He earns his money with words and she's a walking mystery.

He can see her fighting. And he wants to give in. Free her from her misery but he's still mad. And now that she's not crying and breaking anymore the feelings he's been carrying around for the past two months finally crash back into him.

She moves again. One small step after another until she gently sits down in the chair next to his own. She pulls her feet up, arms around her knees, hugging herself, caging herself from harm.

God, he's miserable. And by the looks she gives him she doesn't feel any better. Why can't they talk about what they want for once?

It's her who speaks up first. Her voice is hoarse and he wonders if she's been crying in his room. But no, he would have heard that, right? It's just two words but they must be hard for her. Because she turns away after they're out – leans her cheek against her legs. Facing away from him.

"_I'm sorry_."

There is this hitch in the last syllable and he knows she is just mere moments of breaking again.

His first instinct is to get up from his chair, pull her into his arms and forget everything. But that's not really an option because suppression brought them here. His second instinct is to not give in - let him get the answers he's so desperately been looking for.

"Two months," is his only response. He knows his voice is harsh, sees it in the way she cringes, turns around to face him. Wide eyes wandering around until they settle on him. Her teeth sink down into her bottom lip like he's seen so many times before over the last three years.

"I needed time," her voice is not more than a whisper and he knows that tone, she tries to keep herself together.

"A few days, Kate-,"

"I needed more," she interrupts him, her voice louder than before and loaded with something that comes close to anger but closer to disappointment. He can see her draw in a sharp breath, trying to contain herself before continuing. "I needed to work through some things, before...," she trails off, starring in his direction but not quite at him.

"Before what?" It comes out bitter, a lot harder than he intended to.

"Before I could... _call,_" her lips pressed together and he knows she holds something back. He's not sure what but there is something she doesn't tell him. He can see it in the way her eyes flicker to a shut for a moment, lip quivers almost indiscernible.

"Well. You know that I saw you dying that day, right?"

"Castle-," her voice adopts an almost pleading sound but he holds up his hands, indicates her to stop talking.

There are things he needs to get out and he needs to say them now, because he knows if he lets her talk he won't be able to be mad at her anymore.

She's Kate Beckett. And he is in – way too deep.

"No, listen to me. I saw you dying on me. I thought I'd never see you again and then you disappeared off the face of the earth. Tell me, Kate, did your boyfriend help you with those things you were dealing with?" He never planned to say the last part out loud.

"I don't have a boyfriend, Castle."

She, doesn't-

"What?"

He's at a complete loss, no, utterly helpless – fucked up. Maybe he should just shove his foot into his mouth because this is definitely not helping. She seems so small next to him and so unbelievably tired.

He should let her go back to sleep, talk another time. Now is not the time, but maybe this is the only chance they get. Who knows if she's that willing to talk tomorrow?

And_ oh_, she is answering him. Eyes closed, arms tight around her body, but she's talking.

"We broke up. I, I liked him but, but that wasn't enough- I felt it coming," she whispers. "I just thought that maybe – at one point – he could be what I was looking for. But, he's not," the last part barely recognizable because he's breathing so hard.

_Silence. _

The minutes tick and no one breaks the stillness between them.

/

"Why did you come tonight?"

He asks after awhile; it's something he desperately needs to know.

"I had a panic attack."

The words fall from her mouth like it's nothing. It's his turn to close his eyes and he wonders what she's been through those last weeks to make it almost sound easy for her to talk about having panic attacks. He likes to think that he knows her, assuming that they've worked together for over three years and Kate Beckett doesn't just say she had a panic attack like she talks about what she had for breakfast.

He feels the nausea rising up in him and for a moment he doesn't want to know. He just wants to scoop her up in his arms and make her forget everything that hurts.

But instead-

"Panic attack?" he asks and feels her nodding without turning his head to her. He can't look at her right now.

"Yeah," she breathes. "I had a nightmare and then just-," instead of continuing she simply shrugs her shoulders. But it's okay because he knows where she wants to go.

"Did uhm-," he starts, "did something happen?"

"No. I mean, yes. Yeah," she explains, nervously running her hand through her hair. "It's not really unusual. I'm still-," he can sense her inner fight. "I'm still having trouble. After everything, you know?"

There is a pause in which she doesn't talk and for a moment he wonders if that's it – if she she said too much already. Because in the past thirty minutes she gave him more than in the past two months. Even longer.

_Oh. _

No, she didn't stop because she said too much; she's waiting for an answer.

He simply nods because he's not sure he's able to form any words right now.

"After the hospital Dad and I went to his cabin. We've stayed for about four weeks. We came back three days ago. I needed some... distance. He's been great but-," she trails off again but this time he lets her be until she's ready to continue. "I needed to start doing things on my own again. He's been around me 24/7 for almost two months. But the city... it's so_ loud._"

He can feel that this is the end of her explanation but he still doesn't understand. Yes, the city is loud. It's a city after all, but she used to find solace in the noisy crowd; at least that's what she told him once.

"Why did you come here?" Because that's the question that's bugging him since he opened that door just to find her on the other side.

"I couldn't call my Dad, he would have dragged me back to his cabin the second he picked up the phone."

Fair enough, that's probably true. That's what he'd do – if his frantic daughter called him in the middle of a panic attack. He'd try to get her as far away from what triggers her fear as possible. But still; that doesn't answer his question.

Why did she come_ here? _

It's running like a mantra through his head but he can't just pop this question. Not now, not like this.

"What about Lanie?"

He feels her hesitating, slightly fumbling with her hands.

"I haven't really talked to anyone.. since, well-," she mumbles and he's sure it's a blush creeping up on her neck, warming the air between them. It's visible, even in the dark of the night.

So, she didn't talk to Lanie. It's not just him she's been avoiding all those weeks. He's not sure if he should be happy about it or not. It somehow tells him that it's not about him. Not only, at least, but it scares him – her ability to completely shut people out.

How deep is she down that rabbit hole again?

Tonight, though, she decided to come here, and he won't stop believing that it means _something_. It has to mean something, right?

"Then you just decided that after two months it's okay to come back in the middle of the night?" It's supposed to just be a question but his voice betrays him again, anger lingers deep in his tone. He never planned to sound so _rigid_ – he planned to go for gentle this time.

But it's freaking late and he is still just so confused and she is next to him and he just wants to hold her and make her forget everything that put that strained look on her face. And why can't he for once not screw everything up?

"No!" Her voice is loud and he can feel his body absorbing her anger. "But I just didn't know what to do anymore. I couldn't stay at my apartment. I couldn't breathe in there and the first thing that came to my mind was here," she's desperate, pleading, something in between and he doesn't quite know where to place this emotional outburst. At least not until she speaks those next six words.

"I just wanted to be _here_."

Here. As in here at his place, _with_ him, here? Fuck-

He knows she's crying and he feels like a complete ass being the one who makes her upset. She reached out for him and in some twisted way it's more than he ever asked for, and he keeps on pressing and pushing when he knows ,_ knows _that this way he will drive her away. He doesn't want to drive her away.

No – he wants to drive her _close._

He lets her cry, silently next to him; it's just a faint sniffle and it hurts. He wants to reach out but that's probably what makes her run for good. So he ignores, acts like he doesn't know she's falling apart.

After a while she clears her throat.

"I should probably go," she says and moves to get up but he shakes his head aggressively.

"No, no. Don't go," he blurs out and for some reason she slumps back into the leather. "Stay tonight, okay? Sleep," she seems uncertain, considering even.

"I don't want you to go tonight," he says and it's all he can give right now.

Finally, she nods, avoiding his eyes – but she nods.

"Go back to bed, Kate."

/

She sucks in a sharp breath when she stands at his bedroom entry, turning around to face him.

"Do you stay _here_?" she asks and it's just a tiny mumble he almost misses.

"I'm not going anywhere," he promises not knowing if that's what she wants because he seems to be disappointed.

Her eyes flicker to his bed, then back to him before her teeth sink down into her already bruised bottom lip – it's a cute habit but she really needs to stop doing that.

She probably has scars on her soft flesh and he wonders how they'd feel under his own.

No. He can't go there right now.

She still stands in the doorway, unmoving, watching him, slim fingers fumble with the knob of his door.

"What is it?" he asks after another moment; he can't stand seeing her like that. Never could. Never will.

Especially not after tonight.

Her gaze flashes back to his bedroom, before it's drops to the ground. She shakes her head slightly.

"Nothing," she says, "nothing."

She disappears into his room, closes the door behind herself. For a short moment – really, just for a second – he thought she might ask him to come with her. To lie down beside her while she slept, just for tonight. Two people sharing air; nothing more but still so far from innocent.

What did he get himself into?

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><p><strong>AN: **What do you think?


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **I know I said Tuesdays but I somehow think weekends are better for updating. I hope you don't mind me uploading this three days earlier than planned. ;)

Thank you all so much for your kind words, you rock and I'd be more than just happy if you could keep doing that. I hope you enjoy that chapter!

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><p><strong>Chapter Three<strong>

The bedroom is empty the next morning, the only indication that someone, _she_, was here are his neatly folded sweatpants on top of the covers.

He should have known, he thinks, that she'd run because that's what she does.

It's impossible to swallow the disappointment, the painful reminder that last night is over and now is today and she's not here. She left him – again.

For just the tiniest second he thought that maybe this was their turning point. Last night as sat in that leather chair, on the verge of falling asleep, just before his eyes dropped close. He should have stayed awake, should have stopped her from going.

Instead she haunted him in his dreams, but for the first time since _then _it was a good dream and he woke up to a nightmare instead. She was lying next to him, head propped up on her elbow – mimicking his position. They were just starring at each other and she was smiling, it was a true and happy smile. She opened her mouth then, mumbling the four words that'll leave him sleepless for the rest of his life.

_I love you, too_.

The room is empty, though, and she is nowhere to be seen. Gone – just like his dream.

Her scent still lingers deep in his pillow and he knows it's cliché but he presses the white fabric against his face, breathes her in. It's just so uniquely_ her_ that he has to close his eyes for a moment, fight against the burning behind bis lids. It's stupid but it's been two months since he last smelled her. It _hurts _and-

"Richard, darling, what are you doing?"

He swirls around at the sound of his mother's voice. She stands in the entrance between the office and his bedroom still in her morning rope, eyebrows raised.

"Nothing," he stutters and lets the pillow fall back onto the mattress. "Good morning, Mother," he presses a kiss to her cheek as he brushes past her through the office.

He slumps down onto one of the bar stools in the kitchen, as his head falls into his hands. He can feel his mother's eyes on him as she works around him, eventually a cup of steaming coffee finds it's way next to his elbows on the counter.

"Has that," she tabs a finger to his temple for a second, "anything to do with a fairly broken Katherine showing up here last night?"

She stands close to him and he can feel her knowing eyes burning itself into his skull. His gaze flutters to her for a moment, eyes wide in surprise – but not really.

"What?" She asks. "I might be old but I'm not blind," her voice lowers to a whisper, "or deaf."

Right. Maybe it was naïve to think that they wouldn't hear, wouldn't recognize the strange noises in their home. A crying Kate Beckett was that – strange. Especially in their home. Hopefully Alexis didn't hear anything.

Strange. Confusing as hell. Yeah, scary even. Concerning.

"I've never seen her like that, Mother. And I don't know what to do-," he starts to explain, eyes glued to his coffee, not able to look at his mother and her wisdom right now.

"What do you want to do?" Martha asks and sits down onto the chair next to him.

"I want to be there for her. But the two months-"

"No, Richard-," her voice is sharp, he rarely hears her like that and he gulps, swallows hard before he tries again.

"She _promised _to call."

Great – even he can hear the weakness in his voice. He's just so... exhausted.

"Listen to me, I'm walking around this earth for far longer than you do. Let me tell you something about Katherine Beckett. She wouldn't come here if she just needed_ anyone_. She's far too proud for that. She wanted _you_. She came to you to help her through whatever she is dealing with."

"But," he tries it with pleading now, "she didn't call."

Martha aches an eyebrow and he suddenly is five again and did something he wasn't supposed to.

"Nonsense. You are deeply wounded and that makes you think like that. But honestly, Richard, she never said when she'd call and if she needed the time she had a reason for it. What Katherine did last night was a huge step – she reached out. To _you_. Now it's your turn to decide how you deal with it."

"And what do I do now?"

"Do you love her?" This question almost makes him laugh and if it wasn't just such a _cruel _situation he'd to just that – laugh – because how could she even ask him that?

"Yes!" His answer comes out fast and raspy because there is no doubt to his mind that he does.

"Then why do you even ask?" She brushes off without another word.

/

He's here. At her door. Hand raised and ready to knock. But he hesitates. Right now, nervousness is the understatement of the century and he's not really sure how exactly he ended up at her place. Sometime between lunch and his mothers repeatedly sighs he gathered up the courage to come.

_She wanted you._

The words run through his head until he almost chokes on them.

He just really needs to see her right now, talk to her, explain everything even he doesn't understand.

He's a mess, though, and what exactly is he doing here? Right-

_She wanted you. _

And he wants her, it almost hurts just thinking about how much. Needs, he probably needs her – in that completely cheesy, sappy, _disgustingly _unhealthy way where he couldn't imagine ever being happy in a life without her in it.

He needs her. It hurts.

_Do you love her? _

He knocks, two firm taps of his knuckles against the wooden surface.

He waits.

Until he doesn't anymore because the door swings open and she's there. The sensation of seeing her hits him hard and last night doesn't compensate for the two month he hadn't seen her face. He swallows hard.

He takes her in; she's slightly crunched forward, left hand holding onto her side, right hand holding onto the door frame, eyes trained on him. Her brows are drawn together in a way that give her face an sore expression. She's in gray sweatpants, a lose NYPD hoodie and pink polka dot socks he never expected her to wear – he might just fallen in love with her a little harder.

"Castle, what do you want?" She spats, rolls er eyes. Her fingers grip the door, denies him the entry to her apartment, but more than anything she just sounds exhausted, strained.

"Talk."

He can do gentle this time because he's not mad anymore and he hasn't been mad last night. He thought he was but no, he was hurt, wounded and scared but _chose_ to be mad because anger is so much easier to handle than-

Easier than a broken heart. Shit.

"I don't have anything to say-"

"I do."

She stops in her tracks now, considers him for a long while. He almost feels her brain working – deciding whether or not to throw him out. She takes a step back then, just a few inches, makes it possible for him to slip in next to her.

"If we're gonna do this now I need to sit down," she mumbles – more to herself than to him – and walks – stumbles? - towards the couch.

_Oh._

He grasps it now, what he couldn't before, right when she opened the door; she's in pain. Real, physical, body aching pain. Pain caused by a bullet in her chest.

_Stay with me, Kate. I love you._

He stays back, watches as she makes her way through her apartment, somehow painfully sits down onto her couch which for some reason seems to be more like her bed for the day; pillows and a thick blanket carelessly thrown over the cushions.

He lets his gaze wander around her place for a while – gives her a few moments to collect. What he sees is not her usual tidy home. It's not messy but it's still not her – a few dirty dishes in the sink, the closed curtains even in the noon. Just small things but it concerns him, he tastes something bitter. He sinks down into one of the chairs across from her, not waiting for an invitation.

He watches her while she she ignores him. She half sits, half lies on her couch, blanket over her legs, one arm dragged over her face, shielding her eyes; from what he's not sure.

Her table, though, is what gets him. It's half a pharmacy, six different bottles of pills and he wonders what they're all for – they can't be _all_ painkillers, right?

So much. He's missed so much. He missed her.

"Three are painkillers," she starts like she can read him and of course, she can. "Vary in strength, hard dose for the night. I try to get off of those, they make me sick. That's what those little pink pills are for. Then one to help me sleep because apparently my night medication can cause insomnia. And then anti anxiety pills."

Anti anxiety pills? Damn.

/

"Are you in pain?"

The question comes out after a long while in which neither of them says anything. He still tries to get over how nonchalantly she talks about her medication – like it's nothing. It's not nothing and he knows that she knows. She shows him that kind of pain, something she would not even think about under different circumstances and he knows that pattern. That's how she's always been. Giving away small parts of herself, telling him things in order to hide others.

"Today is one of the worse days," she says and he nods. She pulls the blanket a little tighter around a body, a gesture that almost goes unnoticed by him.

It's not that he doesn't want to say anything, he laid out a whole speech at home. He wanted to say how sincerely sorry he is for last night, he even considered bringing flowers. He wanted to tell her that no matter what, he is here – not going anywhere if she doesn't ask him to. He planned to make a fool out of himself, somewhere along the way he wanted to crack a joke – by the end of his apology, of course – make her smile.

But that was before; before he knew she takes something against anxiety, before he knew that today is one of the worse days. That she's damaged and that it goes so much deeper than physical harm. Yes, he knew, if not before than by last night – and he did know before but something about seeing it yourself makes it real and he curses himself because at that moment he doesn't like reality that much. By the looks she gives him she doesn't either.

Right now he just can't talk; his speech somewhere stuck in his throat and he hates himself because again, he relays on her, waits for her to make a step towards him, say something to break the silence hanging between them.

"Castle, just say what you came for. I'm not in the mood today," annoyance thick in her voice. She moves down the couch until she's in a laying position, blanket over her body.

"I want to talk about last night," he nervously runs his hands over his jeans.

"Listen, I was a little confused and emotional last night. I'm sorry I bothered you," her voice is raspy and his breath comes in rough puffs.

He _knows_ what she does, she tries to talk herself out of it, out of _them_, he feels the way she slowly slips away from him, diving them further apart than they already are. At least that's a pattern he knows, something familiar, something she's done so many times before – hiding in her shell, crawling down that rabbit hole.

"Bothered?" He asks "You really think that what's it about?" He's stunned but not really. "No, Kate, that's not true. Just- why did you just leave?"

"Uhm. I- I couldn't-," she mumbles and her whole expression suddenly screams misery. Her eyes find his, only for a second and she asks him something, mutely, eyes screaming his name. It's like he can hear the actual words coming out of her mouth and maybe they are. Last night he was the one to push, not today.

_Castle, please._

"Okay, okay," he rushes, frees her from her battle, or at least tries to. Can't she really see that she's not the only one who's screwed up here?

"Listen, I came to apologize. I was rough with you and that wasn't fair-," he starts but she shakes her head, interrupts him.

"You deserve to be angry-," he feels like that's what she wants. For him to be angry at her but he holds up an hand, silences her.

"But I'm not," he explains and when her eyes open wide in something that comes pretty close to horror he continues, "I'm not. To be honest, I have no idea how to deal with that, I don't know what you've been through since the last time I saw you. I just- I want you to know that I'm here. For you."

In their three years they've never been this honest with each other. They both know it. It's frightening.

"It's not that easy-," but he hold up his hand again, he's not finished, yet.

"I don't expect easy. I don't expect anything, really. Just-," he knows he's pleading but at that point he really doesn't care anymore.

"What?" She asks and he realizes that he's been trailing off.

"Can you try to not shut me out like that anymore? Can you do that?"

That's it; make it or break it.

"I need time."

"And I give you time, Kate, just- Please."

She nods and he doesn't know what that means.

For a long while neither of them says anything.

"Can you go now?" she asks "Please, I'm really tired right now."

He can't be the only one who sees the resemblance in this situation, he feels like he just traveled back two months in time or something just slapped him in the chest – hard. No, he planned to make it good today. He planned, there wasn't a plan B. There is no plan B when it comes to Kate Beckett.

_I call you, okay? _

"Kate-," he chokes and there might be something that comes close to tears in his eyes, burns behind the blue, blurs his vision, makes her vanish before him.

"Castle," she says, a new gentleness in her voice, bringing him out of his haze. "I promise, okay?" she states, raw honesty in her eyes. "Just not today. You- you can call me tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," he repeats.

"Yeah."

She gives him a tomorrow. Tomorrow he can do.

_Yeah_, tomorrow actually sounds really hopeful right now.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Here is the fourth chapter of this story. It's a lot shorter than the past two and I debated about putting it together with the fifth chapter (which I will upload sometime this week) but then decided against it. First, the chapter would have been too long then and second, I like to have this piece as a chapter of it's own.

I want to thank you all for all those amazing reviews to the last chapter, you really made my heart swell up in pride. It makes me unbelievably happy to see that you enjoy this story.

I also uploaded a one shot this week, check it out if you like.

I hope you enjoy this chapter!

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><p><strong>Chapter Four<strong>

He calls and she keeps her promise – she picks up.

They talk for a while, keep it innocent. She asks about his daughter's school and if his mother landed a new role – he hears the distance in her voice, the hollowness.

He tells her little stories about his daily family life – his daughter's boyfriend who is almost off to Stanford, meaning Alexis is currently more an absent roommate, trying to spend as much time with Ashley as possible. He tells her she's growing up. He doesn't tell her about Alexis' concern regarding him, regarding her – Kate's – departure. He doesn't tell her. There is a lot he doesn't tell her.

But he asks – about her physical therapy and if her father is back to work. He is but he drops by almost daily since they came back from the cabin. He's a little overprotective she tells him but his daughter, his only child, almost died not even two months ago. Overprotectiveness is the last thing Rick would call this father's reaction. Physical therapy is fine, she gets stronger but it'll take a while for her to be back to her old self. She says it with a regretful wince. _Her old self_, like she doesn't really believe she'll ever find that person again.

He swallows a lump in his throat that doesn't quite seem to disappear these weeks.

They don't talk for long, just a little over fifteen minutes but it's the most normal conversation they've had in a really, really long time. He doesn't miss the plain exhaustion in her voice, in every breath she takes – he keeps himself from calling her on it, though. They talk and have a somewhat decent conversation.

_Somewhat _– the awkwardness almost visible to unknown eyes.

And still, it's enough for today – today he let's it through.

She says she's tired then and needs to sleep. It just crossed lunchtime and she plasters the seriousness of her words with a joke, tells him she's still catching up on sleep after all those all nighters they pulled in the last three years due to the crazy cases they magically seem to attract.

"So, you believe in magic, Detective?" he asks and he hears the smile in her sigh.

He misses that; her smile. The way she always tries to hide it – her eyes betraying her. He really misses that.

It's Wednesday and he asks if he can call her tomorrow – she tells him no, she has physical therapy in the morning and that it'll probably tire her out, it always does. She offers to call him in the night. He tells her he'd love to.

Thursday. That's one of the days she has therapy. He needs to remember that.

When she calls him late after dinner, at almost 11 PM, he releases a breath he didn't know he was holding, part of him scared that she – again – would leave him standing in the cold, wondering.

Her voice is strained that night, she seems to be somewhere else, not really listening to what he says, deep shaky breaths escaping her lungs. He asks her what is wrong but she just tells him that she's tired and that she had an exhausting day.

They talk daily then, always just a few minutes, mostly before bedtime, and their conversations are far from being labeled anything but smalltalk. It's safe, though, not talking about what they should be talking about.

There is so much they should be talking about.

He tries a few times – offers to come over, bring her food or coffee, teases her about how she can't resist his coffee. He knows she hears the seriousness in his voice but just like he never says anything when she trails off again or sighs just a little too clouded to go unnoticed, she doesn't call him on his honest sub-messages.

It's completely wrong, unhealthy and contra productive – the avoiding tough topics game they play. But they're both masters and neither wants to give up victory.

He still knows, he's gonna give in first.

She tells him not to come, says she's busy with either physical therapy or her father and it's not hard to hear the lies within her words.

She's quiet and that startles him. She's always quiet since that night at his door. Kate Beckett is a person who doesn't give away personal information easily and sometimes she doesn't talk much or anything at all but_ never_ is she a quiet person. And now a stillness lingers deep within her – it's almost shy and precarious and goes way beyond not talking.

She's a walking and breathing – thank god breathing _– mystery. _

And because she is just that – a mystery – she surprises him on a Monday, almost two weeks after the last time he's seen her.

They all sit around their breakfast bar – Rick, Martha and Alexis. Alexis seems to be off somewhere in another world. It's Ashley's last week in New York, on Friday he flies to California to start college. He is busy this week, making them have to say goodbye on Thursday. At least that's what he hopes_ her_ quietness is about.

Yesterday at dinner his mother mentioned Kate and Alexis looked at him – wide eyed – asking if he was going back to the precinct. He told her he doesn't know – because honestly, he doesn't. Alexis nodded, proclaiming she promised to call one of her girlfriends, and left the table.

He really needs to talk to her – soon.

But how does he explain to his teenage daughter that he has no clue if the woman – a woman she is very suspicious about – will ever be more than a colleague, a partner?

How does he explain to his teenage daughter that this platonic – but also so far from just that – totally fucked up relationship that only consists of short telephone calls talking about the _weather _is the happiest he's ever been with a woman?

Happy, though, might _not _be the right word in this mess.

No, not happy but still – it's something he doesn't want to give up, can't give up now.

How does he explain to his daughter that he can't just walk away anymore?

She calls him that Monday; he excuses himself and goes to the office, eyes burning into his back. It's all a mess.

Her picture flares up on the screen and his heart skips a beat – it's the first time she calls him out of the blue. A mixture of excitement and worry rises up in him.

"Beckett, hey," he says into the telephone, tries to sound as nonchalantly as possible.

"Hey, Castle," she answers and_ thank god_, she sounds okay.

He loves the way she says his name sometimes when it's just the two of them, her voice deeper than usual, rich and personal.

"How are you?"

"I'm good. I'm doing fine. You?" He can hear something in her voice, something close to uncertainty.

"Can't complain-," he can't finish his sentence because she interrupts his lie with a fast mumble.

"Listen, I've called to ask you. Uhm-," and then she trails off again. It's a habit he's already gotten used to over the past few days. It happens all too often – he's not sure if she realizes that she does this.

"What's wrong, Kate?" It's just a little push but he knows it's something that usually helps her to get back on track – another thing her recently learned about her.

"Nothing, nothing. Just- Would you like to come over. If you're not busy, of course," she hesitates before she mumbles, "I could use some company."

And just like that his heart swells up with hope, excitement and yes, _love _– how does he explain _this_ to his teenage daughter?

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><p><strong>AN: **What do you think?


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **Finally. I'm sorry I couldn't update any sooner but life got in the way. Classes kept me busy, I was sick and on top of that my Internet is giving my trouble lately.

Anyway, thank you very much for all your feedback, it makes me happy every single time. I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as the last one.

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><p><strong>Chapter Five<strong>

She looks good.

It's his first thought when she opens the door. Really good.

Her locks fall freely over her shoulders, she wears jeans and a white t-shirt and he notices a little touch of mascara on her lashes.

_Yeah_, she looks good.

The smile she throws at him when she steps aside to let him enter is only half forced, part of her seems genuinely happy to see him.

Her eyes fall to his hands, eyes the two paper cups he's holding.

_Right_, he brought coffee.

"Here," he says as she reaches for hers, some kind of familiarity arising in him.

The look she gives him is something he can't quite place, maybe it's something that comes close to _awe_, maybe it's something entirely different.

"Thank you," she answers shyly as her fingers close around the paper, her pinky brushes over his knuckles for just a second and – whether it was intentional or not – it sends shivers down his spine, her eyes lock with his, her lips tug up into a tiny _thankful_ smile.

The _always_ is on his lips but instead he only manages to say, "You're welcome."

She is the one who breaks the contact, walks towards the couch, he watches her as she sits down. The hand that's not holding the coffee runs over her side, shoulders crunch forward just sightly. He's going to ask her how recovery is working later. Right now he just wants to enjoy this kind of normalcy.

It's not though –_ normal _– because he is at her place, after she _invited _him. It is not about a case and not about him who just showed up uninvited. It is not normal, because just nine weeks ago she got shot in the heart and they are both obviously struggling, fighting their demons. It's not normal, because it's not about work and for the first time in over a year they are both single. It's not normal because he told her he loved her and she can't remember.

He looks around her place before he follows and sits in the chair across from her. It's different from the last time he's been here. There are no dishes in the sink, no bed on the couch, the pills nowhere to be seen. The difference is, last time she didn't expect him, anyone, to come. Today she is prepared and somehow it hurts, knowing that she hides things as simple as dirty dishes from him.

It hurts and there is _no _normalcy in this situation.

The only thing that is normal is the coffee, until-

"I haven't had that since-," she breaks off, no need for her to continue, he knows what she's going to say.

_Since the shooting. _

He gulps, hard, something he can't name rises up in this throat, nausea builds up quickly. He thinks she sees the look on his face, his helplessness, because she continues. It's a fast mumble and she sounds sincerely apologetic.

Is she sorry for not drinking coffee?

They are so fucking_ messed up_.

"I mean, I had coffee- obviously. Not at first- I wasn't allowed at first. I had this meal plan and there was a lot I wasn't allowed to have-," she chuckles but it's just a sad sound, she stumbles over her words. "And at the cabin, we just had- I haven't had _this_ coffee in a while," she says at last and looks down to her hands.

It's probably imagination, his wishful thinking but he swears she quietly mumbles_ your coffee_ before she takes a long swing of her vanilla flavored latte. Maybe it's just his mind playing tricks on him.

He just now realizes that it's been weeks since he brought her coffee. It's their tradition and it's been weeks.

Thousands of questions swirl around his head, so much he wants to ask her, needs to know but he doesn't. Instead they sit in silence together for a while. Heart beats turn into seconds, seconds into minutes. It's not uncomfortable but it's awkward. They both pretend to be busy drinking their coffees.

It's still early. She asked him to come over after lunch. He wanted to bring her lunch, eat together but again, she refused.

He eyes her, his coffee empty between his fingers. She still looks tired, drenched, dark circles under her eyes she tried to conceal. Unsuccessfully. She puts her empty cup on the table, he puts his next to hers.

Now they have to talk, can't hide in the comfortableness of their slow sips anymore.

A few heartbeats pass before she speaks up first. She hesitates at first, opens her mouth two times just to close it again.

"I read _Heat Rises _last week," she finally says, fingers tug on the hem of her shirt, eyes nervously running through the room before they settle on his face.

"Yeah?" He doesn't quite know how to answer that. She reads his books, he's known that since day one. But this is _Nikki Heat_ she's talking about – her character. It's something they usually don't discuss – the way he processes_ things_ through writing.

Things, _right_.

"Yeah, I didn't get around to read it before, sor-," he quickly brushes in to interrupt her.

"It's okay."

The smile she gives him is small – barely there – and unsure, shy. She is nervous. That makes him nervous. Kate Beckett isn't nervous about him.

"It must have been really hard. Writing the ending, I mean, and the dedication," she mumbles after a while, still not really looking at him. Just almost.

"It was but-," he pauses for a second, tries to put an valid explanation together, the words in his head a complete blur. "But it seemed right."

They fall back into silence – something they do often lately, more than they are actually talking. Each scared of saying the wrong thing, something that will go too far, something that will destroy them completely.

"Will he be okay?" It's been minutes since they last said something and for a moment he's startled, confused what she's talking about. Until she continues. "Will _they_ be okay? Nikki and Rook – will they be okay?"

_Oh _– she's still talking about the book, about the way his fictional self was able to save_ her _fictional self, about the way he tried to handle his pain, his guilt. The way he was at least fictionally able to take the bullet and save her.

It helped – at first. The writing, processing, the saving _her_. And then it didn't anymore and he couldn't even look at _Nikki_. Just thinking about writing hurts these days. Nikki and Rook together while they are just such a_ blur._

"Two entirely different questions," he states and he watches as her teeth sink down into her bottom lip. She almost looks pleading and he knows, _knows_, that this is _not_ about Nikki nor about Rook. It's about them.

Will they be okay?

They've gotten really good at that, mastered it over the years – talking about important things while not really _talking _about them.

"But yeah," he says then, picks up on her question. "I think that as long as they are together, trust each other, be there for each other they can conquer everything."

It's just partially true but not a lie either. The new book is still _un_-started, still not formed in his head or the wrong murder board.

"That's a nice thought," she says, clearing her throat before she speaks again, her voice deeper than before and for the first time since they started talking about the book her eyes meet his. "I never told you before, but I really believe in them."

He can see what she's not saying, what she's hiding. A small smile tugs at his lips, just a second before he answers.

"Me too."

It's warm and they are stare at each other, his heart beats fast in his chest. He's almost scared she can hear it hammering. He gulps and opens his mouth, ready to say something completely stupid – something that will make her either run or shoot him. Something that comes so pretty close to what he's told her all those weeks ago at the cemetery.

That is not what he came here for. He wanted to_ make _it, not _break_ it.

"Kate-," he starts seriously but is cut off by her hand, indicating him to stop. Confusion washes over his face as she gets up. Her skin is pale, eyes wide.

"I'll be back in a minute," she says quickly as she walks away from him. He eyes her thoughtfully as she strides towards her bedroom.

"You okay?" He gets up after her, follows her through the living room and bedroom. He knows he's invading her privacy – even more than he usually does.

"I'm fine, Castle," she spats and closes the bathroom door, locking it behind herself.

He knows he should go back, wait for her in the living room, let her handle this alone; but when she starts heaving on the other side of the door he can't force his body to leave, no matter how hard he tries. He knows she'll be mad when she realizes that he heard everything, furious even. At that moment though, he can't care less, because all that matters is that she is in there – in pain – and he can't get to her. It physically hurts, knowing that she is on her own and it's even more confusing. He still can't wrap his mind around what just happened. One moment they are talking about his book – really, about_ them_ – and he's ready to confess his feelings again and the next moment she's pale and sick and heaving.

And she still insists that she's fine.

His back is against the wall and when he hears the toilet flush he allows his eyes to wander through her bedroom for the first time. He's never been in here before but it's completely_ her_. It smells like her and her sleep shirt is on the bed and the furniture is unique and he can see a picture of her parents on the nightstand next to _Heat Rises _and it just really, really smells like her. It's almost too much.

He closes his eyes and breathes in and he misses her. She's in the next room and she's never been _his_ and still, he misses her and there is a picture forming in his head about a life they could lead. A different, happier life. If she let him. If they stopped destroying themselves.

She opens the door a few minutes later, something close to annoyance lingers on her face as she sees him still standing next to the bathroom and not back in the living room. He knew it.

She looks tired, a little mascara smudged under her right eye, red and bloodshot. Her left hand is on her stomach, her right arm just tangles on her side.

"You're alright?" He asks concerned, his hand finds his way to the small of her back. She looks shocked – alarmed – for a second before she relaxes into him. He can feel the warmth radiating from her body, making it possible for him to breathe. He's confused about what just happened.

"Fine," she mumbles and lets him guide her to the couch. She sits down but he gently pushes her back on her shoulders, make her lay down. Her lack of restraining is what worries him the most. Without questioning he goes into he kitchen to fill a glass of water for her.

He hands it to her and she gives him a small thankful smile before she takes a sip. He awkwardly hovers next to the couch and looks down at her. He wants to sit because because he feels stupid standing above her, looking down, like she is some child, but he doesn't want to sit on the chair he previously occupied. It's too far but there is no space on the couch next to her – not without having her to move over and that's certainly nothing he's gonna ask her now.

He sinks down to the floor next to the couch then, his knees uncomfortably pressed into the carpet. He kneels at her waist but their faces are the same height so they can look each other in the eye. Or they_ could_ look at each other, her face fixed on her hands, fingers around the now almost empty glass.

"What happened?" He breathes and her eyes flicker to his for a second before she shakes her head.

"It's not a big deal-"

"Really?"

"It happens," her voice is strong but shaking and he wonders how that is even possible, "I told you that some of my medicine makes me sick."

"But I thought only the meds you take for the night."

She now settles her eyes on him and they stay, the smile she gives him is forced and he can see the hollowness in her eyes – the exhaustion. "They are just the worst," she explains, trying to sound nonchalant, "but they all mess with me. It was the coffee and the pill I took before."

"I," he opens his mouth and closes it again. When did she start telling him those things? "I'm sorry. About the coffee."

"It's not your fault. I should have known better," she yawns and closes her eyes for a moment before opening them again, watches him as her teeth sink into bottom lip.

"How often does that happen?" He needs to know even though he's sure the answer will break his heart. It's written all over her face.

"Rick-," he can_ hear_ the tightness in her chest.

"How often, Kate?" He is gentle but demanding and he tries to let her see that there is no discussion to his question right now. He's not playing games and he doesn't want to know to hold it against her, to make her see that she can't be on her own. No, he needs to know because he needs to.

"Not after every meal, okay? I need to be really careful about what I eat and-," she trails off and shrugs, almost like she's gotten used to it by now – like it's nothing.

His breath catches in his lungs and he doesn't know how to answer what she just said because she lies in front of him all skinny and pale starring at the ceiling.

It's just seconds but it feels like minutes before he speaks the only thing that is running through his mind on repeat.

"Let me take care of you, Kate." As soon as the words leave his mouth she completely stops moving.

"Castle-," it's a breathless plea that leaves her, eyes alarmed and scared.

"No-," he wants to touch her, reach for her in any way but holds back. His heart is racing and she isn't the only one who is scared. He wanted to come over for coffee today and now they're having on the most serious conversations they've ever had. They seem to have a lot of those lately – when they are not busy _not _talking.

"You said you don't expect anything," she might be close to tears and again he wants to slap himself for making her sound like that. But he started that conversation and his mind is running a hundred miles a minute and he needs to get it out now – while she is still here with him, while she allows him to be here with her.

"And I don't," he starts gently, waiting for her breathing to get just a little calmer before he continues. "Just- I don't mean you have to talk about your feelings or whatever is going on. You don't have to talk at all," he waits a heartbeat trying to make her see how honest he is right now. "Let me make you food, bring you coffee or no, no coffee. Hell I don't know, take you to the park or drive you to your physical therapy sessions. Just- I don't know-"

His head falls forward into his hands – elbows now pressed into the cushion next to her hip – shielding his eyes from her. He can feel her watching him and without a warning warm fingers close around his wrist, a soft thumb running circles over his skin. He wants – needs – to help her and she is comforting _him_. It doesn't help to shrink the lump in his throat.

_I just wish that- I wish that I had someone who would be there for me, and I could be there for him, and we could just dive into it together. _

She doesn't talk for a long while, keeps the physical contact between them. Her fingers stopped moving and she just holds onto him. When he lifts his head to look at her their eyes meet, her hand still around his wrist, warm and burning and helping him breathe. With his free hand he covers hers, brushes his fingers over hers until they lose around his wrist and he can lace their fingers, press their palms together. It's something they don't do – usually – but right right now nothing is usual and they both let it slip, seeking something to ease the pain out of this simple – yet not really – touch. Their hands sink and come to rest together on her stomach, the rise and fall as she breathes comforts him more than he'd ever admit.

"Yeah, I- okay," she mumbles.

He tries not to let the smile that's growing within him show, something heavy is lifted off his shoulders. He knows it doesn't mean anything. Hell, she could change her mind the next minute, in an hour, tomorrow. Right now she gives him hope though. And whatever that is that flushes over her face, her eyes shine just a little brighter.

"Admit it Detective, you can't resist my food."

She chuckles then – a real, almost lighthearted sound – and removes her hand from his, only to slap his arm instead.

Moment gone.

"Right, it was all just an act to get you to make me your infamous chicken noodle soup for dinner tonight."

"All you had to do was ask."

Yes, laughing about it was sometimes so much easier. They could deal with the hard stuff later, it's just another thing added to the list of topics they need to talk about. What does it matter if the list gets any longer? It could wait because tonight he's cooking chicken noodle soup for Katherine Beckett.

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><p><strong>AN: **What do you think?


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **Thank you very much for your reviews on my last chapter. My wifi is finally working again after almost two weeks without Internet access, which means I'm going to be able to answer your messages now. I hope you also enjoy this chapter! It's the first slightly happier chapter.

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><p><strong>Chapter Six<strong>

He finds her sleeping on the couch.

He goes to the grocery store because her fridge and almost every cabinet is empty – she has absolutely no food in the house, something he definitely has to change. He tells her to relax and she turns on the TV when he leaves the apartment, grabs her key from the table and takes it with him.

He buys a lot, more than he needs for the soup, probably more than she is able to eat in a week. But it's something he can do – feeding her – and he needs to make sure than he does a good job.

She is really _thin_. The skinniest he's ever seen her. It makes sense, the way she can't hold anything down, or can barely hold anything down. It's sick – that something as easy as eating turns out to be such a struggle, like there isn't already enough she has to deal with. It's unfair and he fights with the three heavy brown paper bags – one in each hand, one under his left arm – as he tries to open her door.

When he finally manages to open it he enters the apartment, puts the paper bags on the ground before he quietly closes and locks the door. On his way back to the kitchen he crosses the living room. That's when he finds her – curled up into herself, knees drawn to her stomach, still holding the remote in one hand, some documentary about elephants on television. He watches her for a moment too long for being appropriate. But she's asleep and she's alive and breathing and he's just so _happy _that he's still able to see her chest rise and fall.

He puts the groceries on the counter in the kitchen before he goes back to her, takes the blanket from the back of the couch and gently puts it over sleeping form. He hesitates for a second before he brushes a finger over her cheek – just a second with the tip of his thumb, the need to touch her unbearable. She stirs for a moment until she grabs the blanket in her sleep and pulls it closer around her body and he can't help but smile at her.

He's been following her around for three years but never did he see her sleeping and somehow he feels like he's been missing out on something really important.

He unpacks the groceries and starts cooking then, lets her sleep for a while longer because really, he can't remember a time he has seen her this content and almost _peaceful – _especially lately. He cuts up fresh vegetables and herbs and yes, he googled what to keep in mind when preparing food post heart surgery and he maybe also googled what things to avoid in case of a soft stomach. It's his mission to feed her – to strengthen her and he's going to do this _right_.

It doesn't take long for the apartment to smell like fresh, homemade soup. He hopes she likes it and is able to keep it down this time – it's his special recipe he always makes for Alexis when she's sick.

"That smells fantastic," a sleepy voice behind him says thirty minutes later.

When he turns around he sees her leaning against the counter, a soft smile on her lips and he's sure she's been up for at least a few minutes, her hair is up in a ponytail and she wears a hoodie over her shirt now. One he didn't see in the living room before. She rubs her hand over her face and he can't help but smile at that sight – _sleepy Kate_ is definitively something he wants, needs to experience again.

"Just in time, Detective. It's ready to be served," he tells her. "Do you want some bread along with the soup?" He asks as he fills two bowls for them.

"No, I'm fine," she says and reaches out to take one of the bowls but he just shakes his head.

"I'll carry it," he says sternly and she wrinkles an eyebrow at him, amusement written over her face.

"Really?"

"Are you even allowed to lift heavy?"

"It's been two months, Castle. I can carry my soup, thank you very much," she reaches out again but he takes a step back, shoves the bowls farther from her reach.

"You go pick a movie, _I_ bring you food. It's part of the deal."

"What deal?" There is fire in her eyes, that kind of fight he hasn't seen in a _really_ long time – something he missed. Just for that look on her face right now he'd fight her about soup every day for the rest of his life. At that moment, it's _them _– the way they've always been, usual. The way they've been before – before everything went downhill and declarations of love were spilled and before the feeling of her blood on his hands wouldn't disappear for weeks.

No- not now. He can't go there right now. He needs to keep the fire in her eyes.

"The '_the cook serves the guest'_ deal."

The chuckle – this unbelieving laugh – that escapes her is _heavenly,_ the way she bites her bottom lip challenging. This, _this_ is almost normalcy. "Guest? You do know that this is my apartment, right?"

A good one, Detective Beckett, he has to give her that. They stare at each other for a long moment, neither willing to give in, to lose the battle – but he _is_ the cook and she is hungry and still half asleep, this time he is going to win."You want any of this soup? Then go, pick a movie, _I_ serve."

"This is not over, Castle," she says after considering him for a while. "I'm just too hungry to argue right now."

Without giving him another glance she turns around and walks back into the direction of the couch – there might is a little more swing in her hips as she moves.

"You tell that yourself, don't ya'?" He shouts after her, a smile playing on his lips.

/

"Here you go. Low sodium chicken noodle soup with lots of vegetables. I heard broccoli is really good for the heart so you find plenty of it in there." He places the bowl in her lap and sits down beside her on the couch, the blanket now folded over the back again.

"Thank you."

"So, what are we watching?"

"Temptation Lane," she smirks before she blows on a spoon filled with soup before guiding it to her mouth.

"Really, Beckett?" He asks, eyes wide, pretending to be annoyed, and he'd be just that – annoyed – if it wasn't for that look on her face and the story behind _why_ she loves that crappy show so much. And truth be told, if a sappy soap opera gives her any feeling of safety, of home, of_ family_ he's more than happy to watch it for hours, even if he hates it.

"Hey, it's part of the deal," she mocks his phrase from earlier, eyebrows raised innocently.

"What deal?"

"The '_the one who had a bullet in her chest chooses the movie'_ deal."

_Oh no_, she didn't.

"First, Temptation Lane is per definition not a movie but I let it slip. And second, I can't believe you just went there," his voice is playful and he grins at her but his chest is just a little tighter than before. _The one who had a bullet in her chest, _and damn it hurts – the memory still too real, burned into his brain, haunting his dreams every night, letting him wake up shaking and panting and hoping that she still breathes. More than once he seriously contemplated to go to her place, in the middle of the night – even before they started talking again – just to see that she is alive.

The one who had a bullet in her chest. _Fuck_-

"How is the war wound by the way?" He asks instead, trying to sound casual. They talked about how she is doing but they never really _talked_ – about the healing process, the scars, the surgery about why after two months she still has six different bottles of pills.

And he promised he doesn't expect anything and if she doesn't want to talk it's okay, at some point they might get there but he wouldn't be him if he doesn't ask, if he doesn't try to annoy her at least a few times a day.

"It's fine, getting better," she mumbles, too distracted by the food and TV and he really hopes that she's able to hold the soup down because just the few spoons she ate let her pale cheeks fill with color.

"That's what you always say. How is it really? I can pay attention for more than one sentence at a time."

"Since when?" She laughs at him, a mixture of amusement and something he can't quite place written over her face.

"Okay, alright. It hurts," she starts after they've silently been eating for minutes. He didn't forget the question but he didn't expect her to answer either and he even less expected for her to tell him more than those two words, _it hurts_. " And I really thought that after two months it gets better but it's still so_ painful_. Not always and yes, I improved a lot, I know that. But when I move wrong or too fast or sometimes even when I'm not doing anything it stings," she mumbles quickly and he's not sure that she is really talking to him. "But mostly it's okay. It wasn't pretty at first. It really- I'm not going into that."

"Kate-," he interrupts but she holds up a hand, shakes her head.

"No, Castle, I'm serious," she says sternly, her eyes meeting his and he shuts his mouth immediately. He should take what he can get right now. "I have to take less and less pills, so it's good – I've been taking a lighter dose at night for the past three days," a small, almost proud smile plays on her lips. "Physically, I have more good than bad days lately. It's just sometimes you wake up and it hurts and you know – _know_ – that the best thing to do is sleep until tomorrow because there's nothing you can do."

They are both quiet then because_ wow_, that was honest, blunt and brutal and so not her. She almost seems to be shocked when she realizes what she just spilled. She lowers her gaze to the bowl in her lap and gently dips in the spoon before she eats a piece of cooked carrot, suddenly too interested in the mushy vegetable.

He closes his eyes for a moment.

_Physically. Sleep until tomorrow. _She just told him that she's doing better and all he feels like is crying, or taking her into his arms to make her, make them forget everything that happened.

"The soup is really good," she says, her voice quiet, careful even and somehow she seems to feel that he's struggling right now because she gently bumps her elbow into his side, brings him out of his haze. He glances at her and she's smiling and he can't help but lift the corners of his own lips.

They are messed up and avoid _things _and the way they play around their feelings is more than just unhealthy – and right now he couldn't care less because she slightly leans into him, her shoulder pressed against his as she quietly laughs at whatever is happening on_ Temptation Lane_.

And just like that he can really breathe again.

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><p><strong>AN: **What do you think? It would make me unbelievable happy if you could leave a quick review to tell me how you like it - but don't worry, the amount of reviews don't decide whether I update or not. I have still a lot planned for this story and I'm not going to stop anytime soon.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **Hey guys, I really need to apologize for this delay but life is really busy right now. I hope you all had an awesome Christmas and will have a happy and healthy new year. I hope I won't leave you wating for this long another time.

I want to thank you so much for your breathtaking reviews on the last chapter. You really warmed my heart and made me really happy. Thank you very much, you all rock.

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><p><strong>Chapter Seven<strong>

They were getting better, he swears. After his almost breakdown and plea to let him take care of her. They were getting better.

She let him bring her food, groceries or take out, accompany her to a one of her physical therapy sessions – he sat in the waiting area but still, take her out for walks or coffee – her body seems to get used to it again, watch uncountable hours of Temptation Lane and – to his surprise – Nebula Nine, probably the worst Science Fiction series ever. Katherine Beckett, _seriously_?

They watched all twelve episodes in the last week– twice. But watching a less than mediocre TV show was just a small burden to bear when Kate leaned into him, letting him take some of her weight, legs pulled under her body, her tight brushing his, shoulders flush against each other. He wouldn't mind watching Nebula Nine for the rest of his life. They even kept up their nightly telephone calls, despite the fact that they saw each other every day of the past week.

_Yes_, were they getting so much better.

Until the ring of his phone wakes him one night. He's startled for a moment, unsure of what woke him. Rolling onto his back he puts his arms over his face as he groans. He was having a good dream – something about Kate in a white dress and babies. Definitively a good dream.

He only opens is eyes when he grabs the phone and holds it in front of his face, the light blinding him and his eyes need a second to adjust to see the screen. It's just after 2 AM and Kate's face is smiling at him. He sits up abruptly, something about her calling him in the middle of the night frightens him more than any other uncharacteristic thing she did in the last few weeks.

"Kate," he speaks in the phone, somehow breathless.

"Castle?" her voice is muffled and clouded and... _teary_.

_Fuck_- she's crying.

"Hey," he says trying to sound soothing and calm when instead he already starts to panic because she doesn't call him in the middle of the night, even less crying. Something must be unbelievably off. "What happened?" He's already out of bed, phone pressed between his shoulder and ear as he struggles his way into his jeans.

"I- Uhm," she sniffles and he knows she's trying hard to keep it together – to not break down right here with him on the telephone.

"Can you- Can you come?" She hiccups after a few moments and she sounds so small and vulnerable.

"I'm already on my way," he says as he pulls on his shoes by the door, his heart slams in his chest – or maybe out of his chest if he can't get to her as soon as possible. "Can you tell me what happened, Kate? Are you hurt?" He pronounces each word like he's talking to a child – which she clearly is not but he can't help it right now. Not when she's crying on the telephone.

"No," she mumbles, her voice strained. "But- Can you hurry up?" She loses her voice at the end and he can hear something impossibly close to a sob from her side. "Please?"

"I'll be there in fifteen," he can't remember any other time he left the house in such a hurry, racing down the stairs like the house is on fire. And for once he's lucky – it's in the middle of the night but he catches a taxi just when he leaves the house and storms out onto the side walk.

"I'll stay on the line," he says before he gives her address to the cabbie, telling him to go_ fast, _praying for the traffic to be light. "What happened?" He tries again.

"I-," she stars. "I don't know. God- Just make it stop, please," he knows she's crying now, can hear it in her voice, in her muffled breaths.

_Just make it stop. _

He flashes back to that night not even three weeks ago when she told him those exact same words – catching him off guard, making him feel completely helpless.

Is she having a panic attack? Is that what she wants him to stop, and if yes – how does he do that? His mind tells him that she wouldn't do that – call him when she's breaking down. Not Kate Beckett – she'd try to handle everything herself, because that's just who she is. But she did it before, right? That night at his door, and they didn't even talk back then. And the fact that he's in a taxi in the middle of the night, racing to her place and the shaky sounds that ring through his telephone should be proof enough. Right?

He really, really needs to get to her –_ now_.

They don't really talk, or more like she doesn't. He hums incoherent words into the device, just something to show her that he's still with her. She only speaks again when the car turns into her street.

"How far?" She mumbles, she cries quieter now but that doesn't lessen his concern – quite the opposite really. This almost resignation in her voice makes him gulp hard, his breath hollow, mind dizzy.

Fucking _mess_.

"I'm almost there," he says as he basically jumps out of the taxi the second it holds in front of her building. "I'm up in less than a minute," he says sternly.

"Hm."

"I need you to open the door when I'm there," he yells panting as he runs up the stairs, not even trying to wait for the elevator before he comes to a sharp halt in front of her door. "Kate I'm here, just in front of your door. Open up, please."

He takes a few moments before he hears movement from the other side of the door, knows she's standing right on the other side. The only thing that separates them is the wooden surface he so desperately needs to cross. He hears her fingers, imagines her pressing them flat against the door.

"Rick?" Her voice is so _vulnerable_ and raspy and she uses his first name. He's gotten to the _Kate stage_, it's nothing unusual anymore but she doesn't call him Rick. Not unless something is seriously wrong. Not that it wonders him, she called him in the middle of the night. Of course, there is a lot that is wrong. But still – the _Rick_ throws him out of line and he feels it burning hot behind his eyes, blurring his vision momentarily.

"It's me."

The door cracks open, just ajar, her face in line. Her eyes are wide and red and she looks _scared,_ knuckles turning white, holding onto the wood tightly.

She just keeps starring at him and he stares at her, unable to move and suddenly the rush, the hurry in which he came here seems to subdue and he wishes he just had one moment more to collect – to think about what to actually _do_ when he sees her. But he is here and she is here and they just keep on starring and she's falling apart from the inside and all he really wants to do is hold her – but that scared, terrified look she gives him tells him otherwise, tells him not to push or to pull, tells him to just go at her pace.

He pushes the door gently open – her hand falls off the door and she steps aside, just slightly – making it possible for him to enter. She's not moving and he closes the door, secures the safety locks before he turns to face her.

She's avoiding his gaze now, stares off somewhere into distance, past him. He takes a step closer until he stands directly in front of her. With her heelless feet she's a lot shorter than him, making it impossible for him to catch her eyes with her face hanging down.

Her lip quivers in just the tiniest movement – almost going unnoticed by him. She's trying so hard to keep it together, so hard to not break down in front of him. _Oh, Kate_. When will she finally realize that he doesn't mind – that he wants to be the person she can break down in front of? And they yet have to talk, still hovering by the door.

"What happened, Kate?" he speaks slowly and by the use of her name she looks up, sucks her bottom lips between her teeth, tears swimming in her eyes and he really wants to reach out, curl his fingers around hers, comfort her through his touch. Something they definitively don't do. Never. But _really_, he wants to.

She's struggling to find the words, any form of communication to tell him what it is that is wrong. To tell him what changed in those few hours since he made her dinner, since they've laughed together in front of the TV. Since she insisted on watching her favorite episode of Nebula Nine and he just kept on watching her. He can see it in the way her nails press into the palms of her hands, the arch between her eyebrows more prominent than ever.

"I- Uhm-," she stumbles over her words, confusion, pain, fear and _desperation _crossing her features – something that startles him, something he can't quite place and he slightly crunches down, lets his shoulders fall a little to catch her eyes, big and scared and beautiful.

_Fuck_- She has no clue how beautiful she is.

He can't fight this urge anymore, not when she's struggling and right in front of him. He reaches out his hand and catches her fingers between his, feels the tremble in her skin when his thumb brushes over her wrist, the steady_ thumb _of her pulse under his finger. _She's alive – thank God_. She shuts her eyes and he never meant to make her shake harder, to make the tears fall from her eyes, to let them roll down her cheek, drop from her chin onto their closed hands but he knows brushing them away oversteps more boundaries than she's going to let him.

"Kate-," he starts again but this time she stops him with a small shake of her head before she talks.

"I can't- Do this anymore," she mumbles. "I- I can't," and he is so _confused _because he doesn't know what she's talking about and he just wants to help but she keeps on mumbling that_ she can't_ and then she hiccups as she cries openly in front of him. And that's something Kate Beckett just doesn't do and he's only holding her hand because he is lost. Her eyes are open now and she looks at him with such high expectations that it's breaking his heart.

She is the one to take another step in his direction, untangles her fingers from his – only to close her arms around his waist, her forehead leaning against his chest. He pulls her closer instantly, crosses his arms over her shoulders, his face sinking into her hair, breathing her in. _I love you, _floats through his mind and he almost speaks the words out loud.

"Shhh, Kate. It's going to be okay," is what he mumbles instead, muffled by her hair but he knows she hears him, her arms tighten around his body as she sobs into his shirt.

Never. He's never seen her like that and he flashes back to the night at his loft just those few weeks ago. He didn't know what to do back then, afraid of doing something _wrong_ – opting for doing nothing instead. But they're here now and she's letting him comfort her so easily. She _wants _him to comfort her. Again. And so he hold her – in the middle of the night, in the entrance of her apartment, lulling words of comfort into her skin.

/

"You died tonight," she says after a long while, tears dry on her cheeks, voice hoarse and raw and just so extremely vulnerable that he has to close his eyes to fight the tears burning in his eyes.

"Kate-," he feels like her name is all he's able to say anymore.

"I just- needed to make sure you're okay," she mumbles, face still pressed against his neck, warm breath tickling his skin. They are still wrapped around each other three feet away from her door. He doesn't know how much time has passed since he knocked on her door. "I- usually I can handle them alone. The nightmares. It was just so real and I- Hearing your voice wasn't enough," he can hear the tears in her voice again, the hitch in her breath as she fists his shirt between her fingers before letting go, taking a step back, eyes fixed on the floor.

"I'm sorry if I bothered-," she starts but it's his turn to shake his head, to silence her with his hand on her cheek – just a short brush of his thumb over the dried tracks the tears left. Tracks that dare to be flooded again.

"It's okay," he whispers loud enough for her to hear. "You can always call and I'll be there," he says the words but all he can hear is her voice in his head.

_Usually. _

She can usually handle her nightmares alone. It doesn't soothe him, doesn't make his heart lighter. It only hurts. Because she has nightmares. Nightmares that leave her crying and shaking and she_ can handle them alone _– but he doesn't want her to. He doesn't want her to have nightmares and he certainly doesn't want her to go through them alone, without anyone. Without him by her side. Damn, Kate.

"Can I do anything, get you anything? Your meds. The ones for-," he stops before he says _anxiety attacks_ because he knows he's crossing boundaries right now. But she seems to be too exhausted to care or to get mad because she only shakes her head, no.

"I don't want any pills, Castle."

"Do you want me to stay with you tonight?" he says then and he didn't plan to ask her that but right now it's the only thing that comes to his mind and honestly, it's the only thing he wants to do. Something in her face changes. She almost looks relieved. Just for the tiniest moment until dark shadows cross her face again.

"I can't ask you to-,"

"You're not. I'm offering. I want to, Kate."

He never thought she'd accept. But she does. She simply nods and turns around, walks towards the destination of her bedroom. He still hovers by the door – unable to move, not sure about what to actually do now. She said yes but what now? Does he simply let her get back to sleep, stay on the couch until she wakes up the next morning or does he go and stay with her until she's asleep, tuck her in?

But she turns around then, halfway through her living room, eyes fixed on his.

"Come with me?" It comes out as a question, just a whisper in the almost dark room and he nods, follows her until they reach her bedroom. He watches as she crawls under the ruffled blanket, not really paying attention to him,while she adjusts on the mattress, finding a comfortable position before looking back at him.

"Would you mind staying_ here_?" She asks quietly and he swears she's never seemed so young before. In that huge bed without makeup, red eyes and messy hair.

He carefully walks closer to the bed as not to startle her, she still seems to be shaken up.

_Usually she can handle her nightmares alone._ How many nights has she been awake, afraid of the monsters and ghosts that haunt her?

He removes his shoes, socks, jeans and sweater laving him only in a maroon shirt and boxers as he crawls in next to her, careful of leaving enough space between them. But she moves closer, drags her arm over his stomach and releases a ragged breath as she presses her face into his chest, her ear right to his heart. He moves his arm to curls it around her waist.

He stays awake for long after her breathing started to even out, her arm becoming slack over his body and he swears she's finally fallen asleep. He's tired but just now he allows himself to close his eyes, let sleep lull over him. He's almost gone when he hears her faint whisper – and _really_, he's not even sure she said anything at all. Maybe it's just his imagination, but he could swear-

"I wanted you to stay with me that night at your loft."

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><p><strong>AN: **And again - I'd really like to know what you think. A short review would make me unbelievably happy.


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